Bright Blue


And so it has become pathetic again that I do not mourn for the camera hungry
Victims of murderers and dragons, they only watch in bright blue.
Now they are stained on the glass electricity explaining the unexplainable, and we
Weep for them with their new fancy dress and walk. Am I wrong or just observantly
Over the top with emotion willing to say what I think regardless of consequence,
Does it matter?

Does what I think or say effect anything at all, just as the tide has stretched it’s
Massive wings over the innocent woman that is now gone?
And those petite butterfly winged reporters with there fashionable smiles and they’re over cautious wincing, as if they really feel anything.
Stab them with a fork in the face and let the party begin, where is the silver and
The prongs of life willing to grasp their hair sprayed egos.

It’s like this, I know there is good out there for it prevents me from loading a
Chamber of lead and directing at the gray men and women of this colorful planet, so it
May once again bleed pure blue. This is not up to me and logically with purple attached
It comes down to will, which is free floating with good and bad.
Consequence, there’s that dreadful word again and does it have anything to do with you,
Or what you say to the man at the bus stop or for that matter the man at the top.
That man piercing mad with red overalls on with a witch hunt smile worthy of death playing
The chess game of his life, with all his glory and wit. The pawns are the innocent, and the player is your worst nightmare. With a cooper like grimness etched upon his brow
He waits until the next time you sleep, like a Santa Claus on acid he waits for the
Madness to begin and the chivalry to expire, for that last tooth to fall of the cold floor.


Don’t be scared it’s just an illusion of the confused sociopath and the mind of a
Freak show pain alter blazed a fire with midnight shadows.
Brushed upon a rod iron pole of poker playing pragmatics, it’s a mask of your
Flesh, or what was your flesh now wasted like a maniac in a crooked jacket.
I wish it would stop like a sad clock and wake the dead to once again pose for
Those old black and white pictures I adore so much. But no, that can’t happen
For I don’t know why, Maybe because to turn back time would be to erase the
Future, and why oh why would that be a wish of mine?


Maybe if I cry enough I will flood my soul and tear my head off with a plastic
Spoon, then maybe it will make the headlines. Maybe if I’m lucky I can
Have a 30 second debate sound off with one more bald sports writer thinking they
Could be the coach of the Lakers and be in a cute sounding Dr. Pepper ad.
Oh the faint sound of that damn cell phone vibrating makes me want to apologize to the
Dinosaurs about why that comet took them away. The comet you say?
How does one know it was a comet, just as one knows it wasn’t an earthquake.
Maybe it was Joseph Smith in all his glory and now his beautiful supermarkets
With their fresh fruits and spoiled milk. They wont sell the same beer in Utah but everywhere else is fine? Oh I see, maybe that decision was based on bread.
Or maybe it’s because they don’t want to intoxicate their own so they stay
Alive along enough to pay the church off, by the way Salt Lake is now speed country,
What irony blindness is.
Where are the angels by the way? Did they send the scriptures down that one fateful
Day or did they win the World Series last year. Aw so many things to digest, and
Now the season of the papaya is over just like my mind.


Brain Surgery is not for the average, the way I look at it is,
It’s a lot easier going in if you’re not the one on the table signing
New white papers that you had no idea about. That fresh smell
Of paper, oh how it used to bring joy and remind me of school with
No worries, but now it was only maybe to be my last smell besides
The gas they knock you out with. I feel like Frida Kahlo but I have no
Bright blue colors, just morbid stories that fragment into nothing.